


A Begging Dog

by BloodLunacy



Category: BioShock 1 & 2 (Video Games)
Genre: Atlas (BioShock) is Not Frank Fontaine, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, I mean yes this game is like 13 years old, Not Canon Compliant, Swearing, also, and tons of people know the twist already, because I am fueled by anger, but be warned, not beta read or edited, not by a desire for actual quality writing, that goes without saying honestly, very spoiler heavy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-06
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:33:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27422782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BloodLunacy/pseuds/BloodLunacy
Summary: Jack gets sick of the bloodshed and being on the brink of death- but beyond that, he's tired of feeling abandoned. In the whole wide world of Rapture, he has only one person to trust, who is unfortunately sided with Fontaine.So, lacking any other options, he makes Fontaine an offer.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 18





	1. Welcome Home

He did it.

He ought to have felt proud, or happy. This was supposed to be a moment of victory, of revenge for not just himself, but for Atlas and his family, for everyone who had ever been wronged in Rapture. For all the Little Sisters, for all the families torn apart when their little girl was kidnapped to become a walking ADAM factory, for all the poor men spliced to hell and back against their will to become Big Daddies, for every innocent life that had been snuffed out in this pointless war. Instead, he felt... wrong. Fundamentally, unchangeably, wrong.

Jack, his shirt and face damp with Andrew Ryan’s blood, stuck the key into the override system. He sighed with relief as he felt Rapture’s foundations stop trembling, tears stinging his eyes. He was so overwhelmed, his mind was swimming with a thousand other worries and questions now that he no longer had to worry about his impending doom. He didn’t feel real, he didn’t feel like he was inhabiting his body- had he truly ever? He couldn’t remember how it felt to think he was a person anymore, and it had only been moments ago that he had learned the truth.

He… was Ryan’s child, but he could hardly be called human. Ryan’s last words echoed in his mind, playing over and over like a broken record, his voice ragged from pain, his face half bashed in from the twisted golf club. ‘A man chooses, a slave obeys’.

Jack wasn’t a man.

He didn't even get the pleasure of killing Ryan himself. No, Ryan took even that away from him with those three horrible words. Really, in the end, he was just a tool with which the man committed suicide, rather than a killer. And that, somehow, hurt more deeply than anything else, it made him want to scream and tear out his hair and sob until his soul was well and truly empty.

He looked down at the tattoos on his wrists and wondered, briefly, whose decision it was, who decided to decorate his body with such a cruel reminder of his role in life. Because it certainly wasn’t his own. Maybe Suchong did it as a punishment when he acted out of line; maybe Tenenbaum wanted to feel power over another creature in the same way she did back at the prison camps. He couldn't say, but it hurt, knowing that every aspect of him was controlled and carefully forged by someone else for their own gain.

The shortwave radio whined for a moment before Atlas’ voice rang clear over the device, and Jack felt both sick to his stomach and endlessly glad to hear the Irishman again.

“Nice work, boyo,” Atlas said, though his voice was heavy with what sounded like guilt. “I knew you could do it. But, I think now it’s time to finally let you know a little o’ what’s been happenin’ behind the scenes while you’ve been workin’. For that, well, there’s someone I ought to introduce you to.”

The radio momentarily went quiet, and Jack clenched his jaw, tightening his fist around his wrench until his knuckles went white. What fucking more could there be? He’d already learned so much, too much, God, he wanted to go back just a few minutes and be spared what he now knew. But no, slaves like him didn’t deserve mercy. He knew he deserved punishment for all the horrible things he had done, but, Christ, couldn’t they just wait a minute before delivering the next blow?

When next the radio crackled with static, the voice that played over the speaker was one Jack was completely unfamiliar with. It was low and had a thick accent he couldn’t quite place, one that he certainly hadn’t encountered even on the audio diaries he’d found. 

“You’ve been a real sport, kid,” the man laughed. “Hell, you’ve almost been a better business partner than Atlas, here. ‘Course, the fact that you were genetically conditioned to bark like a cocker spaniel whenever anyone says ‘would you kindly’ might have something to do with it. But where are my manners? The name’s Frank Fontaine.”

_Fontaine?_

Jack furrowed his brows, thinking back to every time he had heard the name through his short and horrible stay in Rapture. All the corpses left in Fontaine’s wake, all the destruction, all the fear… Everything that had happened in this city, all the innocent lives ruined, could be traced back to either Ryan or Fontaine. Even though he had supposedly been dead for years now, everyone only uttered his name in a whisper, terrified of him even after he disappeared. It had been Atlas who called Fontaine a ghost, assuring Jack that he had nothing to fear from the man, that everyone was just jumping at a shadow. The betrayal only grew worse with each second, and left a bitter taste in Jack’s mouth. 

“Atlas and I had a plan a long while ago, you see. We both fucking hated that prick Ryan, and Atlas, the starry eyed revolutionary, learned that you can’t win jack shit without money on your side. Thanks to you, I get to run Rapture tits to toes, and he gets to go topside and get a cut of the profits to do whatever the hell he wants. You’ve been a real pal,” Fontaine continued, “but you know what they say… Never mix business with friendship.”

What?

“Thanks for everything, kid- and don’t forget to say hi to Ryan for me.”

Jack could hear Atlas shout something on the other end of the radio, but the frequency was cut off before he could get out a full word. He didn’t even get the privilege of time to cry, to mourn the man he thought he knew, to lament the fact that his life was nothing but a simulation up until this point. The moment the radio went silent, security bots were on his location in a heartbeat, and he had to make his escape or else be littered with bullet holes yet again. A sensation that, truthfully, he was growing all too accustomed to.

What a grand way to be truly welcomed home.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hadn't planned on this going above like maybe two chapters, but it seems like now we might hit three or four- if not more, knowing me, honestly. Finally sat down and decided to actually edit, though, so I've made a few minor changes here and there, nothing major.

Jack awoke in a Vita Chamber for perhaps the dozenth time since what happened in Hephaestus, opening his eyes with a pained groan. The Code Yellow had left him painfully weak- where once he was able to be blasted in close range with a shotgun shell with little more than a scratch to show for it, now even the weakest blow from a thug left him reeling. He dreaded the next time he would try to save a Little Sister from her fate.

Sighing, he stumbled out of the chamber, slumping bonelessly against the cold metal wall before his body finally regained its bearings. Which was taking longer and longer with each defeat, he realized with a dull pang of anxiety. Well, add that to the ever growing list of shit he had to worry about now. 

He grew to truly hate everything in Rapture. Once, he allowed himself to feel hope. He thought he could survive this hellhole, assisted by the selfless Atlas and the motherly Tenenbaum. It would be them three against the whole damn city, and Jack truly thought he could succeed. Ignorance had been bliss.

Tenenbaum, at least, had tried to help. Her effort alone wasn’t enough, she and all the Little Sisters now relied on him to uphold his promise and save them from this dystopian madhouse. But it still hurt, knowing that she was part of the reason why he was the way he was. Talking to her face to face was surreal, looking at the closest thing he had to a real mother, with the knowledge that she had helped twist his mind and body into a machine for Fontaine. He would help her, but he would do it for the little girls. She could go to hell for all he cared, honestly. For everything she had done to him, to those little girls, even to her fellow prisoners, she deserved nothing less than hell, no matter how much she tried to make amends.

And then there was Atlas, the fucking traitor. He once tried to rally the masses against the rampant capitalism and greedy policies of Ryan, only to end up in Fontaine’s pocket, even actively helping him wage war through convincing the lower class that splicing and murdering was the only way they could end their oppression. He was a selfish piece of shit who lied and cheated his way to the top of the pile. He was a pawn, sure, but he allowed himself to be so, and only pretended to care about Jack, using him for his own damn ends.

Jack was now on his own side, he realized.

From that train of thought was born a terrible idea that, truthfully, Jack should have killed in its crib. But, hell, he knew there was little he could do at this point to succeed. He would just keep throwing himself into the line of fire in hopes of helping the Little Sisters, 

Stumbling weakly up the millionth flight of stairs, Jack’s head began to spin and his heart hurt unlike anything he’d ever experienced. Every so often, his heart would start to pound, the rhythm irregular and excruciatingly painful, but each time was somehow worse than the last, and this time, it was absolute hell. An icy fist was wrapped around his lungs, constricting them while his heart began to desperately try to overcompensate and pump as much blood as it could through his body. He partially collapsed against a wall, crying out in pain.

The damned shortwave radio crackled to life once again, and Jack hoped, for a moment, that Atlas had snatched the radio from Fontaine, that the Irishman was going to comfort him or tell him a code to reverse what Fontaine had done. It was a lifetime since he last heard Atlas’s voice, or perhaps only a few hours, but in either case, he would have given his own right hand just to hear him again.

Instead, he was greeted by the gruff voice of Fontaine. “Hate to see ya this way, kid,” he said with a sigh. “Hell, I was there when you were born.”

Jack thought he heard genuine remorse in his voice, and his chest began to ache with something else completely. He was so desperate for even a scrap of kindness that he would search for it anywhere, even in Fontaine.

“You ever have a dog you had to put down? Breaks your heart.”

Jack’s mind momentarily went back to the audio diary of him as a child with his puppy, but he dismissed it with a stubborn shake of his head. “ _But you don’t have to!_ ” he cried. 

All of Rapture came to a halt. 

Jack rarely spoke as it was, and had never once raised his voice, let alone in objection. So to shout at Frank Fontaine of all people felt like he had stopped the sun moving in the sky, like he had just managed the impossible and immediately regretted the decision, not knowing if it would work in his favor or just bring everything crumbling down around him. He held his breath, the silence absolutely suffocating.

“The hell did you say?”

“You don’t have to kill me,” Jack repeated. “It doesn’t even make sense to!” The words started flowing forth before he could even think through them, and he was hardly even aware of what he was saying. He was fueled solely by desperation and survival instinct, and saw no way out other than this. “You’ve put so much time and effort into me, and now you’re gonna throw me away? Imagine buying a hammer to build a shed, then tossing it out the moment you’re done. It just seems like a waste of money and effort!”

Fontaine laughed, a harsh, cruel sound over the radio. “Ain’t that fun, a dog begging for it’s life. But you got a bit of a point, kid. Tell ya what-”

“No,” Jack snapped. “I- I have a deal in mind.” He absolutely did not have a deal in mind. He just figured anything he could conjure up would be more beneficial than anything Fontaine had to offer. 

“Did mother goose teach you that neat little trick, thinkin’ for yourself? Or do you just think you’re so damn smart, now that I can’t pull the strings like I used to? I can make the Code Yellow worse, if you wanna keep mouthing off. Or you can shut your trap and listen to what I have to say, if you really wanna keep your hide that bad.”

The radio crackled again, and the mortified voice of Tenenbaum chimed in. “Jack, you cannot trust anything he says! After all that he has done, after all that you have accomplished, you cannot mean to throw that away.” 

“Doctor, I- trust me, I know what I’m doing,” Jack said, trying to convince her as much as himself. “This is for the best of all of us. I… I can’t save all of Rapture. I just can’t, Tenenbaum. But if I play my cards right, I can at least save you and the Sisters.”

His hand trembling, Jack flipped the switch to mute Tenenbaum’s channel before she could respond, then pressed down on the button to keep the call with Fontaine open. His stomach churned with anxiety like the sea in a storm, and he took a deep breath before speaking again, praying that his voice would remain steady and not break with overwhelming emotion.

“Alright, Fontaine- what’s your offer?”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two things. One, I think I kind of have a direction I want this to go in? So that's cool. Two, per the usual when I try to write things... It's probably going to turn gay. 'Tis my curse.
> 
> Also I know I don't tend to reply to comments but genuinely every comment means so much to me, I really appreciate it!! <3

Jack hadn’t ever made a deal before, so in retrospect, he had no idea if it was at all fair. According to Tenenbaum, it was an idiotic decision, perhaps the dumbest he had ever made in his brief time of being a free man- and perhaps it was. But the terms were simple enough, as was the reward.

He had to collect Tenenbaum’s and Suchong’s old notes on ADAM production and the creation of plasmids, then bring the information back to Fontaine in his apartment. That’s it. In return for his work, he would be able to go to the surface as Fontaine’s guard and loyal lapdog, and Fontaine would also let Tenenbaum and all the girls escape in their own bathysphere. That was all he cared about, truthfully; as long as the girls were safe, he would be content.

Tenenbaum refused to help him in his search for her research notes, but with some effort, he was able to find them all the same. Really, Tenenbaum had gone completely silent shortly after he made the deal, and he hadn’t heard from Atlas since Fontaine first butted in. It made everything feel so painfully empty and lonely. Jack knew there was nothing he could do about it so he shouldn’t care, but his heart still ached at the realization that, for the first time, he was well and truly alone.

Though he may not have always been a man (and even now, he was still borderline subhuman), he craved humanity. He needed kindness, even just a gentle word of encouragement, a soft voice to assure him that he would be okay. And that had all been removed from him with no warning. It had only been a few hours since everything went to hell, yet it felt like an eternity had passed without anyone speaking to him at all. It was truly cruel, making him into the perfect little slave, into a tool to be used and then disposed of, yet also allowing him to feel, to emote, to yearn for closeness and comfort and all the simple things that make one a human.

Loneliness, true and inescapable loneliness, sank deep into Jack’s soul, making it difficult to even think straight.

It would be worth it, though. It had to be worth it. His first act of autonomy had to have some good come of it, right? The Little Sisters would be saved, he would get the chance to start a life of his own on the surface, albeit on Fontaine's terms- everything would work out fine. He would be fine. What could they do to him anyways? He had nothing to lose, and everything to gain, no matter what happens.

He pressed on through Rapture, meandering from Tenenbaum’s apartment to Suchong’s clinic, searching for a specific safe that, according to Fontaine, would hold all the information anyone could ever need about splicing and ADAM production. He passed by innumerable mangled corpses as he walked through the dilapidated tunnels of Rapture, some new, some old. Too many he recognized as dying by his own hand, the bodies burnt and twisted and riddled with holes, some with their skulls bashed in with a well aimed strike from his wrench. The stench of blood and burnt hair followed him like a phantom with each step.

Jack shuddered and picked up his pace, trying desperately to keep his mind focused on the goal. Get the files, take them back to Fontaine at his apartment, then leave this godforsaken abyss for good. 

Easier said than done.

Jack had probably explored the entire expanse of the clinic a dozen times now, yet he couldn’t find anything close to what Fontaine had described. He had found plenty of horrific, unsavory things that he would much rather not dwell on until he had solid land beneath his feet, but certainly hadn’t found a safe or any files pertaining to splicing. Though his search was hardly fruitless in the end. 

A not-too-distant cry of pain and gunshots caught Jack’s attention, and before he could think better of it, Jack dashed over to the sound without a second thought. He was expecting perhaps a couple of splicers attacking each other, or maybe that someone was attacking a Big Daddy, but whatever it was, it was a welcomed distraction from the frustration of his task.

Rounding a corner, electrobolt at the ready and shotgun loaded, Jack was fully prepared to spring into action, only to completely freeze in his tracks. 

A man was cornered by a spider splicer, which was now reeling backwards from a shot from the man’s pistol. From what Jack could see, the man wasn’t a splicer either. His skin wasn’t tattered and loose and malformed, at least, he still looked mostly like a proper human. Neither of them noticed his approach, far too preoccupied with trying to kill one another.

“Feck off, damn it!” the man cried, fumbling with his pistol, his hands slick with blood, as the splicer went to lunge at him again.

Jack’s heart caught in his throat upon recognizing the accent and voice, and he immediately leapt into action. He clenched his fist and then released a jolt of electricity to the splicer, making her entire body seize up, grotesque muscles tense and a weak shout escaping her throat. He dashed forward, slinging his shotgun over his shoulder in favor of swinging at her head with his wrench. Her skull broke with a sickening crack, and with just the one hit, she crumpled to the floor, well and truly dead.

Finally, he got the chance to look Atlas in the face, to see the man whose voice he had grown so attached to.

Atlas was covered in sweat and blood, leaning heavily against the wall, a deep scarlet stain spreading across his white shirt from where, evidently, the splicer had stabbed him in the shoulder. He was breathing heavily, his face twisted in a pained grimace. And despite that, he was still quite handsome, far more so than the posters could ever hope to capture. He had chiseled features, captivating sky-blue eyes, and his black hair was still somehow neatly styled despite all the abuse he had endured. Just looking at him, he certainly seemed like the kind of man who was a natural born leader, able to inspire people to fight with just a simple word, or to calm even the angriest mob with a charming smile. The posters were, of course, quite exaggerated portrayals, but Jack could see the similarities nonetheless- though the man before him was vastly more beautiful than what an artist could capture, he imagined.

Both men had fallen into an awkward silence, and Jack’s face burned bright red upon realizing he had just been gawking at Atlas as if he was a beautiful piece of art and not a human being who was, in fact, quite injured.

“Nice to finally meet ya proper, boyo,” Atlas gasped, pocketing his pistol and clutching at his bleeding wound.

Jack approached him slowly, as if afraid that if he moved too quickly, Atlas would vanish like a pleasant dream. He wasn’t sure what to say or do- he had spent so much time wishing he could talk to this man face-to-face, but now that they were, he wasn’t sure what to do with himself. 

“You’re hurt,” he finally said. “Can you walk alright?”

“Yeah,” Atlas said breathlessly, stumbling forward. “Listen, Jack, I need to-” Atlas cut himself off with a low groan, swaying dangerously on his feet.

Jack caught him before he fell, bearing his weight carefully to keep from brushing against the wound. “Whatever you need to say can wait a second, we need to clean you up first. We can set up a perimeter in Suchong’s clinic and find some supplies to help stop the bleeding.”

“I’ve taken plenty of hits in my day, boyo, this is hardly the worst wound I’ve ever dealt with.” He tried to laugh dismissively and give Jack a weak smile, but the other man was hardly convinced.

“Which means you ought to know that this needs treated as soon as possible. Come on,” Jack wrapped Atlas’s uninjured arm around his shoulders. “We gotta move fast, I don’t know how many splicers are still alive around here.”

“From the looks of it, not many, thanks to you,” Atlas chuckled, though it was an empty, humorless sound. “But I see your point, lad. Let’s get a move on, then.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Consistency in Atlas's accent? It's far less likely than you think. (Aka I got lazy and also couldn't figure out a good balance between phonetic spelling and regular spelling so I just didn't)

It was perhaps the only time Rapture could ever be described as peaceful. Tucked away in a dank corner of a broken down clinic, barricaded behind a makeshift wall of tipped over cots and a proximity mine placed at every entry point, there was finally a respite, a moment of peace, space to breathe, time to think. Distressing though the surroundings were, Jack, for the first time in his life, knew he was safe, at least for a brief time.

Atlas was seated with his back to the corner on perhaps the only somewhat clean mattress in the entire clinic. He had stripped away his stained shirt and, using some bandages and gauze that Jack had found earlier, began patching himself up, which took far longer than either man would have liked. Though, given that he was only able to use one arm, it was hardly surprising. 

Even knowing this, Atlas had insisted that he’d be quite alright handling it on his own. “Just keep a lookout, boyo, this isn’t the first time I’ve had a nasty little scrape like this.” 

Jack, just as he had been told, stood guard, only once needing to take a break thanks to the pain of his heart slowly failing. Still, he was able to function quite alright, so with his machine gun in hand, Incinerate at the ready, he fancied he made a pretty decent lookout. Though upon hearing the grunts of frustration and exertion behind him, he turned to see Atlas struggling to secure the gauze in place over his wound. Using medical tape while holding the gossamer material in place all with just one hand was proving to be quite the difficult task.

Wordlessly, Jack abandoned his post, propping his gun up against the metal frames of the cots, and knelt beside Atlas, rolling up his rugged sweater sleeves. It took all his focus to keep his eyes from straying. “Do you need a hand?”

“Seems like I might,” Atlas grumbled, passing the roll of medical tape to Jack. “Wish they made bandages a little bigger, it’d make my life a lot easier,” he joked, wincing as Jack began placing down the tape on his shoulder. 

Just that tiny amount of human touch was absolutely mesmerising to Jack. To feel warm, living skin beneath his fingertips, to know that this man trusted him enough to defend him and help him while he’s injured- it was bizarre and made his chest feel tight in a strangely pleasant way. He wanted nothing more than to pull Atlas into a hug just to feel what it was like to be embraced. He wanted to cry to know how it feels to be comforted. But he was determined to remain calm and stoic, shoving down his deeply human desires with a firm hand.

As Jack deftly worked, Atlas took a deep breath, as if bracing himself for something. “Now, boyo, I’ve really got to talk to you about… all this. But first, I-” mid sentence, he drew his pistol and fired two shots off to the side, the bullets burying themselves harmlessly in a wall. Jack flinched and dove for his machine gun, acting before his mind could ever hope to catch up to what the hell was happening- but before he got far, Atlas reached forward, took the radio from Jack’s belt, and threw it against the wall, shattering it upon impact.

“What the hell was that?!” Jack cried, shaking with adrenaline.

“Fontaine can listen to everything over the radio,” Atlas explained, “even when you think the damn thing is shut off. I don’t want him to hear anything I have to say.”

Jack blinked, confused, but he supposed that made sense. Best to let the man think that the radio was destroyed in a firefight, but he did wish Atlas had given him some sort of signal before doing all that.

“I’m sorry, Jack.” Atlas’s enchanting blue eyes were cast downwards as he spoke. “I’m sorry for usin’ you like I did. I know it likely doesn’t mean a damned thing to you after all this, after everything you went through, but I really am sorry. The way Fontaine and Suchong talked about you, it made me think you wouldn’t be a person. I was half expecting a dog to climb out of that bathysphere, not a man. They said you didn’t have a will of your own, and I believed them.” He took a deep breath before continuing. “But clearly, you do. No matter what the hell they did to you, you’re still as much of a person as anyone else. You want to live, and I want to help you.”

Jack was left speechless, and for reasons he didn’t comprehend himself, hot tears began to sting the corners of his eyes. For a moment, he was so overwhelmed with emotions that he could have drowned, but soon, it passed into a torturous numbness that left him nearly trembling yet again. “Why,” he finally asked. “Why did you side with Fontaine?”

Atlas looked up, lament and regret heavy in his gaze. “Because I learned the truth. You can’t succeed in this world if you don’t have connections and money. That’s true not just here in Rapture, but the world over. Go anywhere on the surface and try to enact change without a penny in your pocket or some big wig’s name to throw around, and all you’ll do is land yourself in prison or a rubbish bin.” He looked around the crumbling, neglected room around them. “Seems like I’ve wound up in a combination of both either way.

“All this time,” he continued, “all I wanted was a better life for my family.” A slight waver entered his voice, his own unshed tears clinging to his words. “Back in Ireland, we were miserable. Poor, hungry, and in constant fear of being bombed by one faction or another. So we left to the States, only for the suffering to follow us there, too. Finally, we fled to Rapture. It was supposed to be a promised land of sorts, but… well, we both know how that turned out. So I got tired of running, and decided to try and fight for change. But, like I said, boyo, you can’t do much of anything without money. Not in a place like this.”

Jack couldn’t begin to comprehend what Atlas was going through. The guilt, god, it must have been eating the Irishman alive, knowing that his family was gone and it was his fault.

Just then, his heart began to throb yet again, his lungs failing to take in air, and Jack blacked out for a moment, desperately gasping and clutching at his chest as white hot pain filled his entire body. He was only vaguely aware of the fact that he had collapsed on top of Atlas, all of his senses either dulled or completely stolen from him by the agony.

“Damn,” Atlas hissed, “it’s gettin’ worse- listen, I talked to Tenenbaum, there’s a serum of sorts that can undo all this programming.”

“What?” Jack croaked. “You talked to Tenenbaum?”

“Yeah, it’s a bit of a long story, but… But we’re done using you. We’re gonna help you, and then we’re gonna kill Fontaine. Do you understand, boyo?”

He nodded, his head feeling far too heavy, his vision blurring and darkening around the edges. This was by far the worst wave of pain he’d felt from the Code Yellow, and a pang of fear struck him upon realizing that he might actually be dying.

“Good. Now, rest up a bit.” He felt Atlas gently move him so he too was resting on the mattress. “You’re not gonna die, not yet. According to Tenenbaum, whatever strings Fontaine pulled will take a whole day to actually do ya in. So we’ve got plenty of time.”

Atlas continued talking, though Jack couldn’t make out what he was saying as his eyes slowly drifted shut. The last thing he remembered before allowing darkness to consume his consciousness was the gentle sound of Atlas’s lilting voice lulling him to sleep.


End file.
